The Ashes in my Heart
by darksideofnight
Summary: The world they sit in is bleak, and isolated, snow is falling, an event that in the before-time, would've been called an anomaly. Now it is another characteristic of nuclear winter.


A/N: The Manhattan project was the creation of the first atomic bomb. The manhattan site is what I'm calling the place where they tested it. (It's in New Mexico.) Also, I know that there's some fog around what country the Atomic bomb originated in, (Germany, Japan, USSR, etc) but the first one was tested and created in America, so I'm just going with that.

Arthur's voice is muffled, through the gas mask he wears, but he speaks, anyway.  
"We're the only ones who'll remember how it was." His words echo a familiar song, the tide of nostalgia and rue that they drown in, sometimes. Neither Francis, Alfred, nor Mathew answer immediately. They listen to the wind above them, and the popping sound that the fire emits in front of them.  
"That's happened, before." Francis states the only thing he can think to comfort the younger ex-colonies, and he thinks that he should sound comforting, because they have not lived through this as many times as he and Arthur.  
The world they sit in is bleak, and isolated, snow is falling, an event that in the before-time, would've been called an anomaly. Now it is another characteristic of nuclear winter. Not even the ash in the air, or the smoky cloud cover are strange, anymore. The sun is a memory, fixed in the heads of the four nations.  
"There used to be art, like this." Alfred comments, gesturing to the space around them. "People liked it 'cause it was scary. Dichotomy's fucking weird." He says it in an off-handed tone, as though regrets the people's unhelpful foresight. Canada pokes at the fire with a stick.  
"Maybe they'll make art of the old-world, now." His voice is still quiet, but it carries a stronger quality, now. That, like so many other things, has changed. France's fondness of nudity has subsided. Times of crisis tend to dull those habits, after all. America's fatal love of food has vanished, though whether this says more about stereotypes than it does about personal change, the others are uncertain. England is not angry nearly as often as he once was. Perhaps he just does not have the strength.  
"There's an irony about this. We're not so very far from the Manhattan site, you know." Arthur's comment is needles with resentment. Old habits really do die hard, then. Alfred hangs his head, shamed by this. Canada kicks sand at the older nation.  
"Shut up, England." He says it forcefully, demonstrating the love he has for his brother, even now. America shakes his head.  
"He can say it. It's true." Mathew's eyes look disheartened, though no one can see the rest of his face. He pulls his brother to his feet, guiding him some ways away from the fire, where the Europeans can no longer hear what is being said. England stares at his boots, not knowing exactly why the words came out of his mouth.  
"You've always done that, you know." Arthur glares at the French nation.  
"Done what?"  
"Upset people. With your words. You can be very harsh, Angleterre." Offense flares in Arthur.  
"All I bloody said was that we're close to the Manhattan site!" Francis gives a quiet look, communicating sadness and sympathy. He does not need to spell it out for the English nation, so he is silent, watching as their companions sit and talk quietly in each other's ears. Arthur's anger deflates, and he picks the nail on his index finger. "...I'll apologize." He mutters. Then, he mind seems to land on a new track. "I miss Great Britain." France nods.  
"I miss France, too. But you know why we cannot return." They both know. That somewhere, their people are struggling on without them, and it hurts the deepest part of their souls to know they've abandoned them, trapped in North America with an ocean blocking the way.

The gray snow continues to fall as Alfred and Mathew retreat from the heat of the fire. They sat, the sand cold beneath them. Alfred looks tired.  
"He doesn't mean it." Mathew tries.  
"Nah," Alfred chuckles, a cynical, hollow sound. "Iggy loves that it was me. He wouldn't have said that to someone else." Canada sighs. He has seen England's harsh words do this before, because as hard as he tries to hide it, Alfred has always cared what the man thought of him.  
"If it hadn't been you, it would've been someone else." This, at least, is true.  
"I know," Alfred sighs heavily. "But that's all old news, now. I'm sorry we can't go north." Another thing he never would used to have done. Apologize. Maybe that makes him a bad person, but he doesn't really care, much. Mathew feels the rush of _wrong _that comes to him when he pays attention to the ground beneath his feet.  
"It's okay. We'd die, up there." It's true. New Mexico is cold, but Vancouver is far, far, colder.  
"It's not okay. I miss how it was."  
"I do, too." Is all Mathew can say on the subject, pain holding his tongue.  
At the end of the evening, they don't want to return to their European comrades. But they do, anyway. Perhaps it is because they are family. Perhaps it is because they are to exhausted for anything else.

A/N: Yeah, more Hetalia. Because apparently my brain is too small to come up with ideas for anything else. Enjoy, and please fav and review!


End file.
